Julian Barnes’s recent Booker nomination reminded me that I hadn’t read any of his work as of yet, and I set out to change that via picking up his novel Arthur & George. It’s rooted in history — the “Arthur” of the title is Arthur Conan Doyle — but illuminates a lesser-known facet of it. I’m being deliberately cagey here because Barnes’s dispensation of information is meticulous, and reducing the book down to an elevator pitch would rob much of the first half of its tension and suspense. That deliberate quality did make for somewhat dry reading in the novel’s first third, but the accumulated momentum eventually pays off; it’s both an illumination of history and a work that steadfastly avoids easy categorization. And, in its very creation, it serves as a fitting tribute for its subjects.

I might enjoy one rock book a year. Last year I didn’t count Girls to the Front by Sara Marcus under that banner, because it was so much more than a testimonial to the sounds of the Riot Grrrl movement, and if memory serves me correct, I didn’t really read any books about the baby that the blues had (that would be rock n’ roll…), and that might be a first for me. Earlier this year I read and reviewed a book on Christian pop music and evangelicalism, so that would mean I’ve read one more rock book in 2011 than I did in 2010. This week I added another to the list when I finished up Jagger: Rebel, Rock Star, Rambler, Rogue by Marc Spitz (Gotham Books).

Marc Spitz is one of those guys who I forget about for a few years, and then he puts out a new book, and suddenly I’m talking to everybody about how he’s one of my favorite pop culture writers. I still think the 2001 oral history he put together (with the late Brendan Mullen), We Got The Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story Of LA Punk, is the best book on late 70s punk that I’ve ever read. He’s written abut Bowie, Green Day, and an homage to The Smiths in novel form, and you know what — it’s all been good. Jagger is definitely no exception. If you were one of the billions of people that read the Keith Richards memoir, you should do yourself a favor and read Spitz’s carefully researched biography on the slippery Stones singer.

Also cracked open Masscult And Midcult: Essays Against The American Grain, Dwight MacDonald’s collection on NYRB Classics, and listened to way too much Lloyd Cole as I wrote this. Now I’m going to think of something clever to do to celebrate F. Scott Fitzgerald’s birthday. Maybe I’ll go chug a few gin rickeys or something fun like that.